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threeletterslife · 4 years

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06 | Illegirl

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→ summary: Excelling in every school subject, acing every math test and conquering the academic world is something you do as easily as breathing. As your residential social outcast nerd, you live rather as a recluse, talking to almost no one except for your dear ol’ cousin and that sweet boy in a few of your classes—Jungkook? was that his name? Befriending your ʰᵒᵗ AP stats teacher was the last thing on your high school senior agenda…

→ genre: 90% fluff, 8% crack, 2% angst | teacher!au & f2l!au

→ warnings: profanity, kissing/making out, the yikes of being friendzoned

→ wordcount: 5.7k

You've never really thought about it before but now you realize that teachers do have a life outside of school.

They don't just sleep under their big, teacher desks at night and pop up in the morning right before the first bell rings. You know now that teachers, although with so much authority and intellect, are just humans—they have feelings, they have a life and they can also be your friend.

You beam as you look at your teacher as he lectures. A friend he was...

Your eyes shift up and down Jimin's figure and man, was it too sweet for your eyes. He's so good looking. Actually, even that was an understatement.

Your teacher's tight, white button-up shirt fits his figure just perfectly as his tie sit handsomely on his broad chest. His black jeans look strained on his muscular legs, and your eyes start moving up to settle specifically on his thighs. Goddamn.

Jimin pushes up his glasses (that he only wears in a classroom setting) and that motion draws you in to study his ethereal face. Your breath hitches as you marvel at his wide, almond eyes, adorable nose and those soft, plump lips. So beautiful, so surreal, so...

"Y/N? Y/N. Y/N!"

You jump a foot in the air. "Huh, what?" you shout, startled out of your mind. You know you probably sound like some twelve-year-old caught with porn and you mentally scold yourself for sounding so off-guard.

It gets worse when everyone in your math class laughs at you and you can feel your cheeks turning red with embarrassment.

"I asked you a question," Jimin says as he points to a problem on the board.

You've always noticed that your teacher never ever cuts you slack for being his friend; he doesn't show favoritism, preferring to treat everyone quite equally, no matter how bad someone might take an L on his test. You always thought that was honorable of him, but now, you kind of wished he'd leave you alone to die in your ocean of humiliation.

Palms already sweaty from all the unwanted attention on you, your eyes shake as you squint at the problem. It's hard to focus on the numbers. "Oh shit," you mutter under your breath, but you've always been a loud mutterer.

Everyone laughs again.

Uneasy sparks blaze in your stomach. You hate how everyone is watching you, waiting and listening for anything out of place to ridicule your every move.

But you take a deep breath and the math problem seems to clear up in your vision. It's an easy one, thank god.

"22 pi over 7," you squeak quickly, ducking your head under.

"Hm? Speak a little louder, Y/N," Jimin says as he adjusts his glasses, craning his neck towards you as if he couldn't hear you.

Goddammit, Jimin.

"22 pi over 7!" you yell in the stupidest and shakiest voice ever to be heard by mankind.

Finally, the fire in your stomach burns out when Jimin nods. "Correct," he chuckles slightly, his eyes glinting a bit. " Try not to daydream too much, Y/N. Even geniuses need to pay attention."

The fire is back and hotter than ever, except it's not only in your stomach, it's everywhere in your body. So. Fucking. Humiliating.

Trying to cool yourself, you set your head down on the desk, looking at your shoes as if those dirty, black Watt Star Converse were something actually worth looking at for more than half a millisecond.

Damn. I used to never get distracted... What the fuck is wrong with me?

After school, you trudge to your math teacher's classroom, still embarrassed about the incident earlier. When you walk in, Jimin's erasing the whiteboard, his back facing you.

As quietly and quickly as possible, you set your stuff down at your desk in the front of the classroom and sit. I will not initiate conversation. He's gonna hate me for getting distracted during class.

But when your teacher turns around, he laughs warmly, eyes scrunching up in the way that you love most.

"Y/N, why so quiet today?"

You flinch. "Oh, uh, no reason." You always sound so suspicious when you lie to Jimin.

"C'mon, you look disturbed," your friend says as he sets the whiteboard eraser down, abandoning it to walk towards you. "What's the matter?"

Oh, you know, just simply embarrassed that I think my friend, my teacher is hot and got fucking distracted over his goddamn body during his class.

But you can't say that.

"Oh, um..." you trail off, racking your brain for a good excuse. But as smart as you are academically, you're as stupid as a guppy when it comes to making plausible excuses. "I'm on my period."

You cringe the moment the words leave your mouth. Why, Y/N, why the fuck—

You want to crawl in a hole when Jimin raises his eyebrows in question. "Oh," he says. You swear you see his face flush pink as he turns his back towards you again, walking towards his messy desk. "Did it start today?" he asks.

Okay, what now?

Now it's your turn to flush pink; you didn't think Jimin would ask questions about your fake female problems. "Uh, yeah," you lie. "The cramps distracted me." Feigning pain, you try to convincingly grasp your stomach.

Jimin looks up at you from his desk, his silky black hair falling loosely over his twinkling eyes. To your surprise, he's smiling. "It isn't the first time I heard that excuse, Y/N. I know what you're really like on your period, remember?"

Well, shit. You did remember, you had just hoped he didn't... But it was your darn luck that he did. What did you expect from your intelligent teacher?

Face steaming, you huff. "Oh, whatever!"

Jimin only laughs, his eyes nearly disappearing as his full lips open up to a breathtakingly beautiful smile. You gulp. There's no doubt about it.

You're crushing on your teacher; he's much more of a distraction than your period will ever be.

"Operation help Ji—I mean, Mr. Park starts now!" you announce as the members of your math club cheer loudly.

"I don't know what kind of fucked up nasty humans were mean to our teacher, but we're totally gonna show them!" Nicole declares, Sarah and August agreeing aggressively by her side.

"But the question is... how?" Jungkook asks shyly, scooting closer to you.

Very aware of his movement, you slightly squirm, but pretend nothing happened. "I was thinking of a math tutoring club? For anyone who wants tutoring or is failing the class," you say. "And that way, if asshole parents complain again, we'll be able to say that Mr. Park did everything he could to help them—he has a fucking club dedicated to passing his class!"

"Ingenius as usual," August laughs.

"And when would we start this club?" Sarah asks.

You grin, your eyes sparkling with ambition. "If we can, tomorrow."

"No, no, no!" you practically scream, hitting your favorite pencil against a packet of math problems aggressively. "For the last time, you can't divide x to get an answer! You're gonna lose solutions! Do you want to lose solutions? Do you want to lose that A?"

The teen you're tutoring looks about ready to cry but you honestly feel no remorse. She had been constantly checking her goddamn text messages, giggling over quite inappropriate texts about Jimin. It makes you sick.

If she thinks Jimin's so fucking hot, why doesn't she at least try to be good at math?

"Hey, hey, Y/N, calm down," a familiar, silvery voice calls.

Jungkook.

"I'm trying!" you protest, flinging up your hands.

Jungkook laughs, sliding into the chair next to you and looking at the girl you were tutoring.

"What are you having trouble with?" he asks the girl in such a silky, smooth voice that if someone told you he was an angel, you'd believe them.

"Everything!" the dumb girl wails.

You roll your eyes.

"Hey, hey, then let's start from the very beginning, okay?" Jungkook soothes, smiling softly.

Goddamn, I wish I was that patient.

You just start to zone out as Jungkook literally reteaches this girl how to factor. You honestly wonder how she even passed elementary school. But then again, you have to admit you're a little jealous that this girl has so many friends to text. Yet you'd rather be smart than be popular—that's just how you roll.

You pause. But it's not like you don't have friends. You just don't have that many. And I actually like all the friends I have for once...

You don't remember falling asleep when a large, warm hand gently shakes you awake. Your groggy eyes open to see Jungkook, a goofy smile plastered on his face. "Tired, Y/N?" he chuckles.

The girl he's tutoring rolls her eyes. "Hmph. She yells at me for checking my messages but she does something even more unproductive," she grumbles.

Oh no. You did not just wake up to deal with attitude. You're not gonna have it. "Excuse me, but while I'm out here mastering linear algebra, you don't even know how to factor. Guess you had one too many hours of texting, huh?" you snap.

"Dayum," Jungkook mutters under his breath. He casually holds his hand out for a high-five, which you do, extremely dramatically.

"For your information, I know how to factor now," the girl huffs.

"For your information, that's a required skill for fifth graders," you bite back. "In addition—"

"As hilarious as this is," Jungkook interrupts, placing a hand on your arm, "You should calm down. It's a tutoring session, not a roasting session."

You sigh as the girl practically drools over your friend.

"Sure, Jungkook, sweetie. Thank you so much for your help so far," she giggles, flirtingly twirling her hair with her slender finger.

"Yeah, whatever," you reply as you feel Jungkook's hand slipping off your arm, the warm heat now gone.

Jungkook goes back to teaching the girl, oblivious of her seducing attempts. You roll your eyes as you look around the tutoring club—the turnout was better than you expected, honestly. For the first time in a classroom, however, you feel lost. You're not the best at teaching, (to be exact, you're the worst). Your patience is shorter than your height, (which is saying a lot), but everyone else in the math club seems to be teaching naturals.

Feeling a little guilty you can't do much to help out, you start to play with your pencil, twirling it around and doing cool tricks that you've accumulated over the years. But of course three minutes in, your hand loses grip of your writing utensil and it flings off, hitting the ground and starts rolling away from you.

Sighing irritably because you have to physically move to go get it, you stand up from your chair, crawling on the floor to reach your pencil. "Found you, you idiot," you tell your blue oxi-gel when you hear a light laugh coming from above you.

Facing forward, you come face-to-face with a pair of knees covered with smooth, black material. Looking up, you see your teacher smiling down at you.

"Were you actually talking to your pencil?" he teases, face set with a brilliant grin.

"I... uh..."

"God, what is this?" Jimin asks as he looks around his classroom filled with students. "Y/N, are you organizing a cult?" he whispers with a full grin plastered on his face.

"What no!" you protest as Jimin helps you stand up. "It was kinda supposed to be a surprise but..."

"It's a math tutoring club," Jungkook chimes in. "We're helping students reach that A, you know?"

"You guys made a tutoring club for me?" your teacher says, placing a hand to his heart. "I'm about to burst into tears."

You chuckle at Jimin's dramatized actions. "Well, no one deserves mistreatment. Ahem, especially not body objectification," you say as you glare at the girl Jungkook's tutoring. She rolls her eyes.

"Awww," Jimin coos. "You guys are amazing. You know what? We're ordering pizza, my treat!"

People cheer so loud your ears physically hurt.

You sigh out, clutching your full stomach as you slide into the shotgun seat of Jimin's nice car. "Damn... Since we already ate, does that mean we're not eating dinner at your house tonight?"

Jimin chuckles lowly. "Why? Wanted to go to my house?"

Your cheeks blush red as you shake your head aggressively. "No! I was just saying..."

"Well, I mean, we didn't have dessert yet, didn't we?" Jimin suggests, smiling. His fingers softly brush against yours as he reaches for your seatbelt, buckling it for you. "You always forget to wear your seatbelt, Y/N," he laughs. "You never know when I might fuck up on the road."

"Hmph!" you say, crossing your arms over your rapidly being chest. "Stop babying me! I was gonna put it on this time!"

"That's what you say every time," Jimin chuckles as he starts his car with a press of a button. "Now, cupcakes or brownies?"

"Huh? Um, cupcakes?"

"Great! We'll stop by the market to get some ingredients. We're going to learn how to bake!"

Oh no. Why did that sound like a disaster waiting to happen?

But surprisingly, it was a miracle waiting to happen. You stuff your face with aesthetic, black frosting, occasionally biting at the soft, plush bread. "To think we can bake cupcakes but not cook ramen right the first time," you chuckle.

"To be fair, we actually used directions," Jimin says, neatly slicing up his cupcake to eat piece by piece.

You scrunch your nose. "You look like a prince who's too snooty to eat with his own two hands."

"Or maybe I want to be hygienic? You know, unlike you," Jimin teases as you huff in response. Jimin pokes at you, making you turn to him in exasperation.

"What?" you sigh.

"I dunno... I never really got a chance to thank you..."

You raise your eyebrows, thoroughly confused. "I mean, but it was a team effort..." you try to say modestly. "Besides, I didn't do much of the teaching. I mean can you believe this girl didn't know how to fac—"

Jimin rushes in for a hug, knocking the wind out of you—you lose all train of thought, you lose your voice and all sense of functionality. All you can hear is your heart beating wildly in your chest and Jimin's steady breaths against your ear.

"Y/N... Thank you," he whispers, gripping you tighter. "I know it was you who came up with the idea. And I just—I'm so touched. When I told you my problems, I only expected you to listen, maybe, I don't know, sympathize? But you took my problems and found a solution, putting it into action. No one's ever done that for me before... I don't even know what to say..." your teacher trails off, still hugging you tightly. "I'm emotional, I know... But I almost broke down crying when I saw you and your friends hosting this club... all for me."

Your brain turns into mush at Jimin's heartfelt confession, and you can't help but hug him back, burying your face into his shoulder. Words can't seem to make it past your mouth—you can't afford to ruin the moment by saying something completely stupid.

But that's when you feel it. The rapid thumping of a heart. Except it's not yours—it's beating faster than yours.

It's Jimin's.

You walk into Jimin's class slightly earlier than usual, your phone pressed against your ear as you bob your head up and down, staying silent for a few seconds and then talking away.

"I know, I know, I miss you too, Jin," you say just as you slide into your comfortable seat, slipping your backpack off your aching shoulder.

"Yeah, I know, I love you too. Of course, I'm still alive!" you huff, rolling your eyes. "And no! I didn't burn the house down... yet. No, we don't eat ramen daily—we eat it every other day," you protest.

You're quiet again as Jin gives you a piece of his mind.

"Yes, I know ramen's bad for me," you sigh. "Fine. We'll try to make salad or something today. Mhm. Yeah. Yes, I'm in his class right now. No, Jin! I can't just hand my phone over to him, are you out of your mind? You can call him on his phone at some other time."

You sigh loudly as your cousin rambles on the phone. "Wait. What?!" you suddenly shriek, causing a few early-comers in the class to stare at you in shellshock. Quickly lowering your head in embarrassment, you aggressively grasp your phone with both hands. "What do you mean you're going to be away for another month?" you whisper angrily. "Are you serious? Why does the drama team have to be so good?"

Jin chuckles on the line as you pout. "I know, congrats and all but you've been away for too long. Stop teasing me, I just miss you!" you huff.

Your cousin attempts to explain himself as you sit through it all, nodding your head occasionally. "Okay, then," you say in a sad, defeated tone. "I guess, good luck... Anyways, I've got a test this period, gotta fly." You pause, frowning. "Of course I studied! Who do you think I am?! Yeah, well thanks, I'm pretty confident. Mhm. Yeah. Have fun. Love you too. Yup. Bye." Smiling softly, you end the call with your cousin, slipping your phone into your backpack to replace it with your lucky pencil and eraser. There, now you're completely ready for the math test.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jimin, watching you. When he catches your sight, he gives you a small smile paired with a discreet thumbs-up. Your heart flutters.

Gosh darn diddly dang.

Ever since that night you felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, you can't help but wonder if maybe, possibly, hopefully, you're not in a one-sided crush. It was pretty plausible Jimin had always been so caring because he liked you back—either that or he majorly friendzoned you.

The annoying school bell blares, throwing you out of your thoughts, and as if exactly on cue, your teacher stands up from his desk, taking graceful steps to the front of the class. He clears his throat to gain the attention of still-rowdy students. "I hope everybody's prepared," Jimin says as he shifts from the weight of stacked tests. "If you studied polar curves as I said, you'll be fine for the unit test."

A low murmur fills the class as your peers start to panic.

"What the fuck is a polar curve?"

"Shit, I don't even know what unit this is!"

"Definite integrals, you shithead."

"Well goddamn, I'm gonna fail again."

You cock your head. Yeah, definite integrals might be challenging at first, but they weren't hard—it just required a lot of practice. But something told you most of your classmates didn't even know how to spell 'practice.'

As Jimin passes the tests out, you hear students groan from their first glance of questions.

"No noise, no talking!" your friend reminds his students. "If you need extra scratch paper, pencils or erasers, they're up here in the front; you know the drill. Good luck to you all!"

But you can barely hear your teacher as you're already racing to finish up a problem on the exam. You've figured long ago that Jimin's test questions were always in order from hardest to easiest—which explains why most kids rarely finish. You, on the other hand, learned to immediately flip over your tests and work your way from the back to front.

You don't hear anything, nor do you see anything except for the all too familiar graphs and curves printed out on white paper. Your favorite pencil flies across the exam faster than your mile time, and soon, you're finished.

Wiping your sweaty and cramped hands on your jeans, you look up at the clock in the front of the classroom. You've finished at least twenty minutes early. You sigh softly. I don't feel like checking answers.

Almost instinctively, your eyes glance at your teacher's desk—it was starting to become a habit to look at him. But also, you wanted to see if he was grading the math tests from earlier periods. Except, he most clearly wasn't.

Why? Because he was looking at you. And your eyes meet. Electricity courses through your veins and you swear your heart stops beating for a few seconds. You can't hold the gaze as you quickly turn your head, releasing a breath you didn't know you had held.

Goddamn. Now, this is awkward.

Trying to shake off the awkwardness, you take a small breath and grip your pencil in your hands again. Maybe it's time to check answers.

Except—except, you can see out of the corner of your eye, your teacher still watching you. It wasn't a creepy stare though, no. It was like a handsome prince lovingly admiring his beautiful princess. Well, you were no beautiful princess, and though Jimin might be handsome, he was no prince. But still. His gaze made you feel... secure and even admired. Your heart flutters in your chest.

Why is he watching me?

You're too scared of the answer to even possibly ponder it.

So, sighing quietly, you use all your willpower to pretend like your teacher is not watching you as you cross your legs and tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear. You give your lucky pencil a nice squeeze. It's time to check answers.

"Did you know you frown when you concentrate?" Jimin asks as he does the dishes, diligently washing a bowl that had been previously filled with a healthy salad.

You sit on the kitchen counter, making some tea as you cock your head. From all that watching, he would know all of my stupid behaviors when it comes to test-taking. But you feign ignorance. "How would you know?"

"Well, not to sound weird but sometimes I watch my students take their tests," Jimin says as he dries his wet hands on a nearby towel, then sauntering over to sit next to you on the kitchen counter.

Your heart falls. So I'm not special. He watches everyone.

"No, not all of my students... I only ever watch you," your teacher admits as he scratches the back of his neck in what seems like slight embarrassment.

Your heart leaps in your chest. You don't know how to pirouette, twirl, turn, but your heart was surely doing it at the moment. Was this it? Was he confessing? Were you not in a one-sided crush?

"It's because I care for you," he starts awkwardly. "I mean, don't you tend to watch things you care for? Just to see if they're alright? I dunno..."

Ohohoho, you have no idea.

You nod enthusiastically. "Mhm, of course." Your lips stretch out into a large smile—you're unable to control it. You feel warmer than the cup of tea in your hands. "So you truly care for me?" you tease slightly, casually nudging Jimin.

He nudges you back, laughing. "Of course, Y/N, you're like a best friend to me."

Your eye twitches slightly, your smiles wavers and vanishes and you don't feel as warm anymore.

Well shit, you were friendzoned.

Smiling in accomplishment, you stretch back from your seat, mentally celebrating the finishing of your homework. Your blasted teachers had given you some extra weekend work, but jokes on them, you finished it all in—you glance at your watch—seven hours.

Wait a minute. Seven hours?! You do a double-take, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand and polishing the glass of your watch. The delicate, silver hands still pointed all signs that it was indeed, 10 pm.

Well fuck. I've literally been at school seven more hours than I should've. I've been at school for practically 15 hours! That's more than half of the hours in a day—I spent approximately 63% of the whole day at school!!! And even worse, I mISSED DINNER!

You take deep breaths to calm yourself, immediately looking up to see—no surprise—Jimin working hard at his desk. His eyebrows were scrunched up cutely, and he was biting his pink lips in concentration. The sight of him instantaneously calms you down.

But then you notice Jimin looks frustrated, stressed even. You always admire him for taking care of his own problems, yet sometimes you wish he'd learn to burden others with his dilemmas.

Slowly and quietly, you creep up behind your teacher, looking over his shoulder. "Need any help, Mr. Park?" you whisper in his ear, a small, teasing smile plastered on your lips.

Jimin jumps slightly, turning around to look at you. His serious look is replaced with a reciprocated bright smile. He flutters his eyelashes and runs his fingers through his silky hair, refusing to break eye contact with you. "Oh c'mon no one's around," he says, chuckling. "Jimin will do."

"Yeah, no shit no one's around," you pout slightly, casually placing your chin on Jimin's shoulder. Ever since he majorly friendzoned you, you have to admit it was easier to have physical contact—though your heart beats wildly in your chest every time the two of you touch.

"Hmm..." your teacher hums, twirling his red correcting pen. "It'll take just a bit more... Is our little Y/N bored?" he asks as he reaches out to mockingly pat your head.

You groan dramatically.

"What time is it?" Jimin asks absentmindedly, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

"10," you mutter lazily, wanting to doze off with your face up against Jimin's warm neck.

"WHAT?!" your teacher shouts, shifting suddenly to grasp your arms and bring your whole body in front of him. He even tugs you forward, closer to him. Your heart is already having its own mini explosions, not being able to comprehend such closeness from your ultimate crush.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this late, Y/N?" Jimin cries. "Shit, I'm so sorry, I made you wait so long! God, I lost track of time!"

You just shrug, although a bit surprised at his outburst. At this moment, you're just worried Jimin'll hear the aggressive thumping of your poor heart—it can't take this anymore. You're definitely not built for unrequited love. "It's all good," you say, trying to smile calmly. "It's no big deal, really."

Apparently, your stomach thinks otherwise as it lets loose a large growl, much to your horrification. "Oops," you whisper.

At that, Jimin runs his fingers through his hair, sighing. "Fuck, we've been here for seven hours, Y/N, it is a big deal!" He grabs both of your hands, taking you by surprise. "We skipped dinner! I swear to god, Jin will kill me if he found out!"

You giggle. It was slightly amusing to watch Jimin fret so much. "What if we don't tell him?" you whisper mischievously, leaning forward. You're trying so, so hard not to scream in the utter joy that your crush is literally holding your hands right now.

Nope, I'm not going to acknowledge that at all, you tell yourself dutifully.

Now you're waiting for Jimin to answer, to say something funny, or witty as usual. Yet, he doesn't. Instead, he's actually quite silent—it doesn't seem normal. You take a peek at his face to make sure he doesn't look sick or anything, or maybe it was just a dumb excuse you made up to check his ethereal features out.

That turned out to be a big mistake.

You peer into Jimin's eyes, only to catch them looking at your lips. His eyes flutter back up to yours, and now the two of you are staring at each other. Your eyes speak a language only the two of you can understand.

His eyes tell you to inch closer to him, to part your lips.

Your eyes tell him to tug you into his lap, an all too familiar action. He doesn't let go of your hands.

You can feel his breath, hear his breath.

Hell, you can hear his heart. And you're not mistaken—you swear on your own life that you hear the quickened pounding.

And still, you're staring right into his soft, but slightly hooded eyes—never breaking contact. You're so close. So, so close to him, the closest you've ever been.

He slowly, tantalizingly slowly leans in, almost to give you a chance to back out. Oh, hell no. You're staying.

His beautiful, breathtaking face is so close that your eyes are almost crossing to meet his. Then, he closes his eyes just as he closes the minuscule gap between the two of you.

Your lips meet.

You don't know how something can go by so quickly and slowly at the same time. Each movement of your connected mouths is so languid, so relaxed, yet quick, but victorious fireworks are exploding behind you.

Straddling Jimin, you feel his body heat, your bare legs chafing against the smooth material of his slacks. It's so close to heaven that it is.

He works his magic, lips pulling and parting at the precise moments, his tongue finding its way into your waiting mouth. You can barely function from the heat of the moment, but you realize that you are glad he doesn't taste like beer this time.

Jimin sweetly squeezes your hands that are encompassed in his, leaning back slightly for both of you to breathe. Immediately, your eyes are open, and they lock onto his. But as if in a time restraint, both of you hurriedly shut your eyes again and lean in to meet each other's lips once more.

It's euphoric, really.

And for the first time in your life, you get to feel what physical affection is like. This one's not a lustful, drunken kiss, it's so much more than that. You put your heart in this, and you hope Jimin did the same. It surely felt like it.

With one last, sweet and soft, lingering kiss, your teacher, crush and friend leisurely pulls away. You almost lean forward to follow his lips—you guess you miss them on yours that much.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting Jimin's hooded ones.

Goddamn. You don't know how to feel, what to say, what to do, what to think. Your hands are still tightly enclosed in his.

"Oh..." you breathe out, hoping Jimin would say something for you, anything. But he doesn't. He remains silent. It's so not like him.

Regret starts to pour into your body, coursing through your veins. It feels like poison. You can feel yourself wilt, as you realize—it was still one-sided, Jimin had merely been caught up in the heat of the moment, again.

"Fuck," you whisper, mostly to yourself. "Fuck," you say louder, tears starting to well up in your eyes. Jimin loosens his grip on your hands, and you slide them away, the warmth all gone. You search for your teacher's face for anything, any sign that he was okay with what both of you had just done. But again, nothing.

"Oh my god. What have we done?" you mutter, looking down and away. You were yet to slide away from Jimin's lap, but you couldn't bear to move away from that sort of comforting warmth.

"Shit, Y/N," Jimin breathes. It's the first phrase he says after the... well, kiss. "I'm so sorry," he mutters, his hand fluttering around your face to cup your cheek, but you flinch away. Goddammit, Y/N, why?

"Fuck, I'm so sorry, Y/N," Jimin whispers, he tugs his hand back to his chest. "It was a mistake! I didn't mean it. Oh god, don't tell Jin." He notices you're still on his lap and jumps up, making you fall down onto the cold, classroom floor—you're too shocked to react much. "God, I'm so sorry!" He tries to help you up, but you shake your head and stand up on your own.

"Y/N. I'm so sorry. It was a mistake," Jimin repeats. "It really was."

Your head is spinning, and you don't know what to say, or do, for that matter. "Then, a mistake it was," you finally manage to say, your voice a bit shaky. "Can we go now?"

I made out with him again. And he wasn't even drunk this time.

You repeatedly have that thought, over and over and over again. You can't seem to get the feeling, the sounds, the sight out of your head. You'd given your all into that little kiss, but Jimin deemed it was merely 'a mistake.'

That didn't hurt at all, nope, not at all.

You're quite good at lying to yourself. Because you know that hurt you a lot. God, I'm so humiliated. You just want to roll up in a small ball and throw yourself into a deep, dark corner. But you can't. Unfortunately, that shit is only figurative.

Sighing, you take a slight peek at Jimin in the driver's seat. His face is completely emotionless, which makes you worry.

We just ruined a perfectly good friendship, goddammit.

You're dropped off at your house; no words are exchanged between you and Jimin, you don't even turn back to give him a parting wave (like you usually do). Unlocking your front door, you quickly walk inside, slumping down to the floor immediately. With your back leaning heavily against the door, you bury your face in your hands.

Things had been going so well. Life had been going so well.

Now it seemed like you lost your best friend—who knows what more you might lose?

—previous | next

—masterlist

#jimin #park jimin #jimin fanfiction #jimin imagine #bts #bts fanfiction #jimin fluff #jimin angst #teacher au #jimin fanfic #illegirl

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the-trans-diaries · 4 years

Text

12.10.2020.

So yesterday I finally told my parents that I'll be taking my hijab off.

I wasn't planning on doing it just yet, but yesterday morning I was doing some thinking and I realized that I always put things off because I "don't feel ready" for them. Examples of this include not calling my dentist to book an appointment because I "wasn't prepared" to deal with the rude nurse who answers the phone, staying at a toxic workplace for 4 whole months longer than I wanted to because I "didn't feel ready" to tell my boss I wanted to quit, not telling my then best friend that I liked her romantically for a whole goddamn year because I "didn't think the moment was right". I have no idea where those thoughts came from since it was 8 in the goddamn morning and I was just sipping my coffee and watching dumb shit on youtube.

So after I (randomly) realized I tend to deny myself happiness and sometimes even my own health, I haphazardly decided to tell them I was taking the scarf off sooner than I planned. I initially wanted to wait until December, but I'm so happy I made the decision earlier.

So now we get to the bad part of the story. My mom and her constant guilt tripping, denial and downright childish behavior.

When I broke the news to her, she started rambling on about how she knew this wad going to happen, how I always make rash decisions, how I never listen to anyone's advice, how no one ever took the hijab off after putting it on et cetera et cetera. I made a point to try and not let that get to me, and to an extent I succeeded but I guess hearing about 10 000 implied insults per second gets to everyone and my lovely gut started cramping up almost like a menstrual cramp. Which was fun.

Then she starts throwing her hands around, first insulting me passively aggressively and then following it up "but it's your decision, you can do whatever you want". Classic.

"You don't respect my age. My heart can't handle this much stress." That really isn't my fault. How am I responsible for how you handle your own emotions, exactly? The answer is: I'm not. Just because you find it hard to adapt to changes doesn't mean you get to pin the blame on me.

"You're selfish and only ever make decisions without thinking about others" yada yada yada "but it's your decision". Yes. It is. But you don't have to try to play at my feelings and pity to get me to change my mind.

It hurt listening to that bullshit. Calling me selfish because I did one thing to help my dysphoria and completely ignoring everything that I've tried to spare her from in the past. All those times I woke up early and had to use the bathroom but didn't because I knew her insomnia was worsening and didn't want to wake her. All those times I made lunch and scrubbed the entire apartment down before she came back from work because I wanted her to have some time to herself. All those times I bit my tongue at being called out for the choices I made or the things I did that she disaproved of. All those times I didn't tell her how some of her actions and excuses hurt me just because I didn't want her to be upset. All those times i visited her on weekends because she said she misses me, despite the fact that I always leave that house with so much anxiety that I can't fall asleep that night.

All that, and for what? To be called selfish because I dared make a decision that she doesn't agree with? Fuck you, honestly.

I'm so done accomodating her and her inability to sort through her own personal feelings. Yes, she's my mother, yes I love her, but at the end of the day, it's not on me to make other people feel a certain way. How someone reacts to their emotions is on them, not on me.

My dad is a different story. He agreed with me taking it off, and at first I thought it was because je genuinely wants to support me but then he ruined it by telling me that now I need to "pay attention to what I present as" aka shave my legs, buy dresses, skirts and other feminine shit, follow fashiom trends etc BECAUSE it's about time I find a partner.

So there we go. He told me he wanted my hijab off anyway because I'm 22 (he thought I was 20, this dude doesn't even know my age) and single. He also told.me that he was willing to lock me up in a spa and have me get...whatever it is people in spas do, idk, never been to one but let's just say THAT did not help my dysphoria AT ALL.

I always thought my dad was a lot more laid back than my mom, but apparently I was wrong. He's hardly better. I now know that if I start dressing the way I want to aka wear my binder, hoodies and button ups and cut my hair short, that I would just get scrutinized, lectured, and possibly even threatened for not performing femininity. How nice. Great parenting.

My dad didn't throw a hissy fit and I was able to talk to him properly, so that's at least something. With mom it was a shitshow and by the time I was back home I nearly threw up from the stress they both caused me.

I don't kid myself into thinking that my life will be easier now. This was a huge step for me and I'm happy I made it, but now I'll have to find ways to compromise with what I wear in front of them. I can't dress in anything from the men's section, I'll probably have to wear makeup and do something with my hair, and all that sucks real fucking bad. I'm not sure how I'll cope mentally but I'll have to figure something out.

My next step is going to see a therapist. I need a formal diagnosis and I need to see if I can get one from a therapist that a friend recommended to me. I'm not sure how to start the conversation of me being trans with her but I hope I'll manage somehow. It's difficult when you don't have a support system.

And then after that.... after that will come the scariest and most dangerous part, which would be me coming out to my parents. I have no idea how I'm going to approach that, how I'll avoid getting beat up and shoved back into the closet, but I'll think of something. Maybe my therapist will be able to help too.

It's painful to me to respond to my parents' "i love you"s when I know that they don't truly love me. They love their daughter. Not perfectly, but they love her. Their son though? The real me? No. There is no chance, no alternate universe in which my parents accept me for being trans. And that fucking hurts. It hurts to tell them I love them and to read their "i love you too"s when I know that isn't true. They don't love me. They love who they think I am.

This was a long entry. I really needed to get a lot off my chest.

#trans #trans experience #ftm #entry

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moshfeghpilled · 7 years

Note

describe how each high school year by semester went for you

9th grade: We don’t call it a play date anymore, it is hanging out, hanging by our toes like wet lipped fruit bats, like jungle gym monkey kids. Young and swollen. Blood, immature blood, pink blood, fresh meat blood pepto bismol up the wazoo, and spit under my bed. Code names aren’t for spies, they’re for 14 year old girls with googley eyes, not that we needed them. Kevin and Grace, Ellie and Joshua, Paloma and Matt which is weird because I’m hot for him, and they kinda look like siblings. Pink shorts, black tights, Jimmy Eat World, pizza bagels and lucky charms under a fresh white linen morning like detergent sealed crust between my eyelids, you tore them open. I mean, not yet. But soon. I discover neon sex scenes, Sky Ferreira, and Skins and this is where the final hopscotch box stops; at the end of the subway platform. This is where I’m supposed to jump. Monkey balls fall on our heads as we walk home, and autumn leaves crunch like drum line snare beats. All godless girls with snakes and cherry lollipops and 9 millimeters pointed at our clits, Bend it Like Beckham under your itchy wool blankets, Alice’s mom thinks I’m cool, and I stay for dinner and crack some risky jokes like a fox among wolves. (I think he looks at me when I look away). Me and Hana FaceTime I take screenshots of her dancing with her cat. The girls who play soft ball in short shorts, the girls who call them sluts, the boys who watch. We dance through rainbows in the sprinklers on the way to the Homecoming dance and pretend we don’t care we don’t have dates. We’re floating in the cytoplasm, floating on the cotton candy overdose cause our parents drop us off at the bowling alley but we are too loyal to sneak out the back. We pool our money every Friday after school for the spring break road trip we’re going on when Hana gets a car, and one of us has lost our virginity, and none of us are scared of the dark.

Miss Budd yelled at me for not standing for the pledge of allegiance, and I was 4 years old again. My English teacher held me back, and held my hand, and gave me a safety pin for my missing button, and told me it would be. Okay.

10th grade: We were on the news that year. Cristo’s curls on KTLA, solemn, and not the boy cross eyed and high with his pants around his ankles. Suddenly we’re all standing up straight, suddenly we’re being told we can’t wear leggings because somebody posted a video of Penelope having sex with Max on Facebook. Suddenly we’re underground in the girls locker room (red varsity knee socks, Dina drowning the spider nests with Victoria’s Secret rose perfume, humid with shame and lesbian suspicion) holding our arms in front of our naked breasts, single file like ants for the syphilis test. The boys who drew penises in fire and salt on the soccer field grass, like druid frat boys, but not the boys who put gorilla glue in the classroom locks, and not the boys who wrote their hit list in the red pen on the back of Mr. Chan’s syllabus and ended up in court, who called in a bomb threat, just to get the test pushed back. We all took turns getting our ghosts exorcized in the principals office. It was pompeii and pandemonium, and nobody was safe, not even us girls sleeping wrapped in the dust of library encyclopedias. You moved away from me like I was illiciting the restless black dreams on your grandmas shitty air mattress. The sheets are clean enough, but this attic is haunted, you keep waking up in the middle of the night to your body sinking like a pirate ship caught by the Kraken, the floor gnawing at your bones again so you just. Got up. And slept somewhere else. My English teacher held me back, and told me I was a good writer but don’t be so angry, and I cried right there, and she gave me a kleenex from her Shakespeare tissue holder and I blew this stupid pain head first out of my nose. I never told you about that. Maybe if I had you would’ve felt bad for me and stayed a little longer. But you hung out with those buckwild kids under the spot by the willow tree, and it was easy. it was just snuffing out an annoyance. A mosquito licking the ruby of your earrings that you shooed away. Our birthstones were both rubies, you know, we were twin cancers with balmy skin and busted appendixes, the aliens took you once and the only explanation was a scar on your spine, and I reckon I should’ve known they’d come back for you.

(You are gonna tell your kids about these cherry cola years of golden suburbia, and midnight blue debauchery snapping teenage knees, and furrow your brow forgetting the name of the girl you spent the first two calling your best friend.) You cheered at football games. You got drunk with them at night, and you were bursting and missing teeth like a watermelon smile, you rubbed up against each other like cats they touched you in all the right places and you didn’t text me anymore. You went to sleepovers and posted photos on Instagram, I wasn’t invited, I thought this bullshit was supposed to stop happening in elementary school. All the things we thought would never happen, lockdown drills, fire drills, earthquake drills and we still weren’t prepared. It was. Pandemonium. It was. Chemical fires in Mr. Dow’s science class. And me and my plans were just. so fucking boring standing next to your cherry blossom hurricane. You didn’t wait for me after class anymore and I just. Looked so stupid trying to catch up. Blood, mature blood, cows blood in the manure for the roses to eat. Black blood, like storm sky, I dish out this milkshake I pick the scab and I lick the blood away. Thomas comes out and dubs himself the gay cliche, we walk home together on the yellow brick road, and we pray a tornado will land the school library on our corpses so we can die with those sparkly shoes on. Those ruby shoes on. The Fates gagged me with a pack of jolly ranchers. I got straight A’s while Rome was falling. Nobody has ever made me feel so small.

11th grade: New school. The kids talk different here. Depression in California is like getting a cold in mid-July. So ironic it’s almost insulting. I’m pretty sure it was raining all year, but don’t count on it, I lived sub-terrestrialy with my mothers tulip bulbs. Today’s Wednesday? I thought it was Friday? I thought yesterday was Sunday? Depression in California is like running after a rabbit in the woods. It doesn’t matter how sunny it is, you will suddenly look up and it’s night, and the trees are not your friends, even when they are as skinny and shaky as you. You will get stuck in the swamp, leave your shoes behind, and not even remember why you were out here in the first place.

Headache. Stomach ache. Lots of those, those are easy to fake. Menstrual cramps, vomiting, gut wrenching, kinda vomiting. A personal favorite. I got to get my hands dirty for that one, I got to reach for the gag reflex like a remote control and press fast forward and feel my arc capsizing, until the static buzzed and I was pale like southern gothic tragedy, I’m not bulimic I just don’t wanna go to school. Depression in California is like an abandoned zoo. Everything echoing animal shrieks. They set them free but the cages were empty long before that. I make some friends, nice ones who laugh at my jokes, and I feel like I should get a sticker for it, but I do more nervous shaking than laughing.

Depression in California is like a badly maintenanced carnival. We’ve gone around the ferris wheel 8 times now and nobody seems to notice. The cotton candy polluting my blood, running slow and globby while the kids below spin, the kids drop, the kids could die, but they just giggle hand in hand with smiling clowns who pump them full of teeth rotting sweets, the winking lights are blurry this far away, and it feels like eons before we’ll get back to the bottom. I’m out of tokens. I think I’m just gonna jump.

12th grade: Trump won. I think I might like girls. My dad jokes about his own death so I know what it means to be angry now, like femurs forged from the goddamn ring of Isildur. Is this what’s normal now? Fucking boys who are oil slick and easy living, and lose my socks in their dorm rooms? Meet them for diner food and xans on the weekend, and everything just temporary? Is that just what everybody wants now? My brother got a green card marriage, but I guess he loves her for real now. We watch the Walking Dead until the streetlights glaze over our eyes, he asks me if I have a boyfriend, no. If I’ve had any since I last saw him, no. If no is my favorite word, yes. Thing is I’ve never been anyone’s girl cause I’ve got a volcano where I should have a stomach. I know what it is to live on the red planet. But I ignore all that and go to concerts that bleed beer and swoon for boys who drink the blood. I guess we’re used to falling off of things so we do it on purpose now. It’s not over but I know how it’s gonna end. Cracked skull, and police lights. And to the break of dawn on Brandon’s roof, boxers stained with mayonnaise, and Deadpool is probably his favorite movie or some dumb white boy shit like that. I’m not gonna cry when I leave for college, I’m gonna cry at the car rental watching the sun bleed out on the trees. I’m gonna cry in the knothole of an oak tree, hiding from the freshman mixer party in the woods I knew I shouldn’t have come to once the social anxiety starts clawing up soaked in the gallon of strawberry Crush I downed to calm myself down. You know, in some other parallel universe, my parents never divorced and we dispute where the sugar pantry should be at inopportune times, and I don’t straight jacket myself with the echoplex sound of my mother screaming over my dead body just to not inhale the chlorox under the sink. I was so bloody, I just wanted to be clean.

I thought it was like the 80’s, the rusty exhaust pipe of Matt’s car turning the snow black while he’s wasting time daydreaming of my piston pumping sloppy hips, and rumored things that happen in the backseat, and kicking cans in no particular direction, and first love sticky and first love stabbed into your kidney and you never really recover. I thought it was sixteen candles, and say anything, but it’s getting bloodshot squirrelly smoking hash in the disabled bathroom stall. It’s a personality disorder grown up from the ground like a mushroom that is poison to the touch, and thrown away birthday presents, and valentines day balloons stuck in the trees. It’s dropping the last slice of college acceptance celebration cake on the floor for your dogs breakfast, and cartoon rain puddles for eyes talking about how scary it is to drive on the freeway. Karina and Maddie rough housing like pit bulls in fifth period cause we don’t do shit in that class and pretending that we are not all gonna be strangers in 6 weeks before we. Before we. Please don’t make me say it out loud.

My English teacher held me back, and told me to make up the quiz I missed, and that was the only time I will ever be happy that some strangers just stay that way. And Daddy, I will miss you when you leave me, and Daddy I will meet you in the next life you just gotta wait for me ok?

I am not the kind of girl people have crushes on. I am the kind of girl who can survive 18 stealing food from parties, couch surfing, living like a lightning bolt. There one minute, and gone the next.

#this is so long oh my god I'm so sorry #writing

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anavoliselenu · 7 years

Text

Creighton chapter 8

Justin pauses in front of the king-sized bed with a sleek black headboard and footboard, silvery-gray bedspread, and a pile of pillows.

“They work when I need them to work. No one comes on board who isn’t willing to drop everything whenever I need them. The compensation they get is a fair trade.”

I shrug. I’ve got no response to that, because I assume he pays them more than I make, so it’s up to them what they put up with from him.

“Come. I want to show you your things.”

“My things?”

I follow him toward a doorway that leads into a walk-in closet that’s about half the size of the single-wide I grew up in. The size doesn’t stop me in my tracks, but the collection of skirts, dresses, tops, and slacks hanging in it does. My eyes catch on the shelves of shoes, purses, and accessories.

“What’s this?”

“Your wardrobe,” Justin replies matter-of-factly. “I had it delivered New Year’s Eve.”

What?

“On the flight to Vegas?” I’m so confused. When could he have done that? I don’t remember him making a call, but then again I was buried in the prenup.

“No, before I went to the Plaza.”

“That’s crazy. You didn’t even know if I’d show. Plus, it’s kinda freaking creepy. I’m not some Stepford wife you can just dress up however you want.”

Justin’s laugh fills the room. “If I wanted a Stepford wife, I would’ve picked one of the gold diggers out of the society crowd. You, my dear, are anything but. I knew that on Christmas Eve, and I know it now. If there’s anything that doesn’t suit your taste, it can be removed and replaced with something that’s more to your liking. But I think you’ll be surprised by some of the choices. Country chic, I think the consultant called it.”

Once again, I’m stunned. I’m still trying to figure out how to respond when Justin releases my hand and turns for the door.

“I hate to leave you on your own, but I have to go. Don’t wait up for me, because it’ll be late. If you get hungry, the fridge is stocked.” He pauses at the doorway. “The bathroom is also stocked. I didn’t know what you would like on that front, but the selection should be adequate. Shower and relax. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Apparently I’m only capable of nodding. Justin’s lips quirk into a smile, and then he’s gone. I’m still making my way out of the bedroom when I hear the front door shut behind him.

Well, I guess that’s that. I wander back out into the living room and pull my phone from my pocket. All my social-media notifications are still going bananas, so I ignore them, along with the missed calls and voice mails from a number I don’t recognize.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who would call me a dozen times and leave a dozen messages. I hope JC was right that no publicity is bad publicity.

Going to the window, I can’t help but feel like Rapunzel staring down from her tower, although with much shorter hair. Except in Rapunzel’s case, her tower was at least familiar. I’m completely out of my element here, and I’ve never felt every moment of my Kentucky upbringing quite so keenly as when I stand in this penthouse.

A lyric hits me almost instantly, and I squeeze my eyes closed and hear it again in my head. Pressing my forehead to the glass, I quiet my mind to everything but the words and melody that are taking shape.

Six songs. I need to write six songs, and maybe, just maybe, I’ve got the beginnings of one. My purse is still on my shoulder, and I hurry to the chair near the fireplace and pull out my notebook.

As I scribble out the words and notes, the thrill of excitement rises in my blood. I need a guitar. I really, really need a guitar. It’s one thing Justin couldn’t know I’d want since he arranged for all of this to be delivered before he even knew who I was.

I look out the window at the darkened city. It’s too late to go exploring for a guitar now, so I keep scribbling lyrics, erasing them and rewriting, until my hand is cramped and my back aches.

I lay down my pencil and rise, my muscles protesting and my head fuzzy. The little sleep I got last night and the sheer craziness of what I’ve done is catching up with me.

Flipping my notebook shut, I wander back into the bedroom, hearing the siren’s call of the giant bed. After running my hand along the silky-smooth comforter, I give up the battle and strip off my clothes where I stand before I slide between the covers.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll find a guitar shop.

My eyes snap open and I blink several times, scanning the room.

Where am I?

Then everything comes rushing back. Justin’s penthouse. New York City. Turning my head to the side, I see nothing but smooth, unrumpled comforter beside me.

I sit up and stretch, my attention going to the clock. It’s already close to noon, and there’s no evidence Justin ever made it to bed. Swinging my legs over the side and pushing off the plush mattress, I rise and survey the large bedroom.

Nope. No sign of him.

My stomach grumbles and I wander toward the kitchen, wondering if I’m going to find a note or something informing me as to where my husband is. The granite countertop is spotless and note-less.

I grab my phone from my purse, and see a text from almost three hours earlier.

I’ll be home later. Make yourself comfortable. Call the doorman if you need anything.

I’m surprised he has my number, but there’s no questioning who the message is from.

My burning desire for a guitar hasn’t faded, but I have absolutely no intention of asking a doorman to fetch me one. This is New York, and New York has everything.

I pull out my phone to do some quick Google searching.

Bingo. Apparently Rudy’s Music is a New York fixture, and looks absolutely perfect. I check the distance, and realize it’s too far to walk. I have no idea how to get in touch with Justin’s driver, so I decide that for the first time in my life, I’m going to catch a cab. It can’t be that hard.

I don’t even bother to shower or change my clothes before I’m out the door. After all, I’ve got songs to write, and for the first time in months, I can’t wait to dig in.

I’m riding high on the knowledge that I’ve just written the most epic song of my career to date. Granted, my official career has only spanned nine months, but I’ve been writing songs for much longer. Regardless, the song is epic. I’m as humble as the next girl, but even I know when I’ve struck gold.

I don’t even realize the time as I walk through the giant door into the lobby of Justin’s building. For the last however many hours, I’ve been tucked into a corner at Rudy’s, losing myself in the music. The super-cool old dude finally asked me to leave an hour after he would have normally closed. I guess he was caught up in the music too, but was gracious and awesome, and promised to come to my show the next time I performed in the city.

I swipe the key card the doorman gave me as I left the building, hit the P button, and lean back against the mirrored walls of the elevator. Because Justin owns the entire top floor, the elevator opens directly into a lobby that has only one door. I left it unlocked, assuming only someone with the key card could get back up here.

I can’t help but hum the melody of my new badass song to myself as I step into the darkened penthouse. Dropping my purse on the huge table in the entryway, I grip the notebook between my teeth as I tug off my boots. It’s cold as heck outside, and even during the short walk from the corner where the cab dropped me off, I think I slogged through some nasty stuff hiding in the snow that has been falling since this afternoon. Since I take better care of these boots than some people do their children—they’re one of very few extravagant purchases in my life—I whisper that I’ll be back to wipe them off in a hot second.

I’m crossing into the living area and heading toward the kitchen when a lamp clicks on. The pooling light reveals Justin seated in the chair by the fireplace.

For a moment, I’m reminded of one of those movies where the teenager is sneaking into the house after curfew, and the mom or dad is waiting in the living room all quiet-like before flipping on the lights and surprising the kid. Considering I never had a mom who cared enough about me to set a curfew—let alone ever have a dad—I’ve always been a little envious during those moments in movies. Gran was amazing, but she was in bed by nine every night, and I respected her too much to stay out past midnight, which was my self-imposed curfew.

Justin’s expression is dark, despite the crisp white light. “Where the fuck have you been?”

I stumble to a stop at the question. “Excuse me?”

“I said, where the fuck have you been?”

I’m taken aback by his tone. Justin was the one who left within moments of depositing me in this penthouse, so if anyone has a right to be pissed, it would be me. And regardless of how nice a place it is, I’m not exactly the kind of girl who can sit idle. He never said anything about not being able to leave.

I try to interject some lightness into the mood. “It’s lovely to see you too, my dear husband.”

“Answer the question, Selena.”

Seriously, why is he so pissed?

“I was out. I needed a guitar, so I went and found one.”

“And you couldn’t answer your goddamn phone?”

I glance in the direction of my purse. I don’t remember it ringing, and I sure didn’t look at it after I found my way to Rudy’s. Then I look back to Justin, a flare of guilt building inside me, but it’s quickly doused when he pushes out of the chair and stalks toward me.

“You don’t leave this building unless I know where you’re going.”

Say what now?

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I didn’t realize I was a prisoner here.”

“You’re not a prisoner; you’re my wife.”

“Apparently that’s the same thing,” I mumble, dropping my gaze to the floor. Because I’m pretty sure if I look at him right now, I might incinerate him with the fire shooting from my eyes.

He lifts his hand, and I flinch before he cups my jaw and lifts my chin. I’m forced to meet his gaze, and open my mouth to spit that same fire, when he says, “Scared the hell out of me to come home to find you gone. I came up with a million different scenarios while I was sitting here, calling your phone over and over. Thought maybe you’d run.”

I blink, the intensity of his gaze unnerving me. “Run?”

“From me.”

I bite my lip. A hint of vulnerability creeps over his features before they harden once more.

“Not that it’d do you any good. I’d track you down. There’s nowhere you could hide from me.”

My eyes widen at his words, and heat rushes through me at the sheer possession in them. I should hate it, but I don’t. Being wanted is a feeling I’m not used to, and it’s seductive.

“I’m not done with you,” he finishes.

And the heat cools, because I can hear the unsaid “yet” floating in the air.

I clutch my notebook to my chest, trying to hide the pang that just jabbed at my heart. I shutter my expression, not wanting him to know that I feel the word he didn’t say. Not wanting him to know that I care. Because I don’t.

This is temporary, I tell myself. We both know it. Embrace it. And then move on.

“I guess it’s handy that I’m not done with you yet, either,” I say. It’s the honest truth. I want more of him before he finally gives me my walking papers.

Justin loses none of his intensity as he lifts his other hand and frames my face. I think he’s going to lower his mouth and kiss me, but he doesn’t.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks again, this time much more quietly.

Disappointment fills me. I was actually looking forward to that kiss.

“Selena.”

I snap my attention back to him. “I told you, I needed a guitar. So I went and found one.”

He drops his hands from my face, and I miss his touch as soon as it’s gone. I should dwell on that, but I don’t.

“Shit. I didn’t even think about that.”

“It’s no big deal. I found this little music store. The guy there was awesome. He let me play for as long as I needed.”

Justin frowned. “You didn’t buy one?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a new guitar. I have two perfectly good ones waiting for me in Nashville, and I’ll be back there the day after tomorrow. The guy at Rudy’s told me I could come back tomorrow and play if I want.”

Justin shakes his head. “You’ll have a new one here tomorrow. Just pick it out, and I’ll get someone to deliver it first thing. Your credit cards will be here too.”

Both of these statements floor me. “I don’t need a new guitar. And I don’t need your money either.”

His jaw sets, and his eyes drill into mine. “And yet you’ll have both. This is not a debate. If you don’t pick out a guitar, someone will pick one out for you.”

“Are you ever anything less than completely stubborn and arrogant?”

Justin’s jaw relaxes as he smiles. “Never.”

“I think you’re way too used to getting everything you want.” I say it without heat, because we both know it’s the truth.

“Of course I am, and right now, I want you naked. I’m going to get that too.”

And there go my panties. “Is that so?” I eye his three-piece suit. “Because you’re certainly not naked.”

He reaches for the knot of his tie and tugs it loose. “That’s about to change.”

Did I think my panties were a lost cause before? Because when he slides the tie from around his neck and wraps it around his fist, knuckles flexing, my nipples tighten.

“Lose the jeans, Selena. I want you bent over the back of the couch so I can fuck you.”

My eyes go wide. I should be used to his bold statements by now, but I’m not. I’m not used to any of this. Not used to him.

He’s . . . too much.

But that doesn’t stop my hands from dropping to the fly of my jeans and unbuttoning them and dragging the zipper down. I shove them off my hips, and almost as if my body isn’t under my own control, I kick them aside. My socks follow, and I walk toward the couch.

“The rest of it too.”

My shirt and white cami are over my head and tossed to the floor in seconds, and I reach behind me for the clasp of my bra and it follows. I tuck my thumbs into the top of my underwear, about to shove them down, when he says, “Stop.”

I freeze.

Justin’s presence is given away by the heat of his body as he steps within inches of me. I can feel him move, but I’m not sure what he’s doing . . . until I feel his teeth against my ass, separated from my skin only by the fabric of my panties.

“I want a piece of this gorgeous ass. So fucking lush. So fucking tempting.”

I remember what he said in the shower, and I tense. He reads my hesitation—I’m not sure how, but he does.

“Not like that, sweet girl. Soon. But not yet.”

He tugs my underwear down my hips and presses his lips against the spot where he nipped me. His big hand skims up my ass to my lower back, and he pushes me forward. My breasts connect with the cool leather of the sofa, and I gasp at the contact. Which contact, I’m not entirely sure—but I can guess.

A groan from behind me has me lifting my head, but the pressure against my back keeps me otherwise in place.

“Jesus, Selena. That ass . . . I may have to fuck you like this every day.”

Shivers course through me, and I can feel my arousal slicking down my thighs. Justin’s tongue zeroes in on it and he wastes no time lapping it up, his mouth working between my legs.

I shift uncomfortably. I’ve never done . . . this . . . from this angle, and he’s getting dangerously close to the part of me that has never been touched by a tongue. But Justin clearly doesn’t share my discomfort.

I lift my ass higher in the air, pushing up onto my tiptoes, trying to direct him without words to keep his tongue the hell away from my back door, and what do I get for my trouble?

A sharp slap stings the side of my rear.

“Ow!”

I can feel Justin’s lips moving between my legs when he says, “Stop squirming, Selena. If I want to lick this tight little asshole, you will not stop me.” At the word asshole, his thumb presses against the sensitive pucker, which is already slick with my cream and his saliva.

A shiver runs through me at his words and actions.

“Goddamn, I love your ass,” he says as he increases the pressure and the tip of his thumb breaches the tight ring of muscle.

My nipples? They could cut through bulletproof glass right about now. I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t want this. But God help me, I do.

And then he stands and steps away. As uncomfortable as the last few moments made me, I’m missing his touch already. I open my mouth to protest, but his lips press against my hair.

“Don’t you fucking move. I’ll turn that ass red if you’re not in this exact position when I get back.”

Okay, if I was turned on before, now I’m panting like a bitch in heat. And I’m no longer thinking I shouldn’t want this. I don’t care. I just want him to get his ass back here now.

I don’t dare move a muscle, even though a part of me is sort of warming up to the idea of Justin turning my ass red. Where the hell are these thoughts coming from? Oh yeah, my lady parts.

Justin doesn’t make me wait long. I don’t even lift my head when I hear his footsteps crossing the living room. I might twitch a bit when he lays his big hand on the small of my back, but it’s only because every contact with his skin lights up nerve endings I never knew I had.

“Good girl.” His hand lifts and I relax, just in time for me to jump when a swat catches me just under the curve of my ass.

“What was that for?” My voice comes out in a hoarse squeak, and I’m not willing to even admit that sound can come from my body.

“Because I can.”

I melt back into the couch. Jesus. This man.

Melting takes a back seat when I feel something cool and sticky coat the area that was previously designated as a no-go zone.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“Whatever I want. And it’s just lube, sweet girl.”

Uh . . . just lube? What the hell do we need lube for if we’re not going there just yet? I don’t voice my question because something is pressing against me there.

“What—”

“Hush,” he says. “It’s just a small plug. Not much bigger than my finger. I want to fuck you with your ass filled.”

I suck in a breath. Holy. Shit.

But I don’t protest. I don’t think I have two functioning brain cells left to rub together at this point, because I’m a mess of nerves and physical reactions. Like the arousal coating my thighs and surely leaving slick spots on the back of the leather couch. But any concern over that leaves the building when the plug breaches the muscle and slips inside.

The breath I just sucked in heaves out of my lungs. He might claim that plug isn’t much bigger than his finger, but he clearly doesn’t get that in my ass, it feels huge.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

The slight burn subsides and it slips the rest of the way inside, anchored by the flared base. Justin presses against it, and I shoot up onto my tiptoes.

A sharp smack lands on my ass, and Justin’s hand on my shoulder guides me back over the couch.

“Now we’re ready.”

I don’t bother to agree, because his other hand is slipping between my legs to experience exactly how drenched his detour into deflowering the back-door virgin territory has gotten me.

He must have removed his clothes, because I feel nothing but hot skin and hard man pressing against me from behind. The hand on my shoulder slides up the nape of my neck and grips a handful of my hair.

The head of his cock slides along my entrance and I shift back, trying to help it slide inside. His smooth lips skimming along my earlobe are a counterpoint to his gruff words.

“You’re never going to forget what I feel like inside you. I’m going to fuck you until you feel me with every step.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” I whisper. I can’t even believe I’m saying it, but I’m nearly mindless with need for him. I don’t want to be teased, I just want him. Now.

“You naughty fucking girl,” he says, dragging his teeth down the tendons of my neck.

I expect him to slam into me, but instead he presses in slowly, and I savor every inch as he gives it to me. I offhandedly realize that he’s being thoughtful because of the . . . um . . . accessory he’s introduced into this situation, which makes him feel even bigger than I remember.

Holy wow. Why don’t guys with small packages insist their girls wear these? Or maybe it’s only Justin’s generous equipment that feels impossibly large.

His careful handling of me doesn’t last beyond the first few thrusts. It could be the moans that I can’t keep from spilling from my lips. It could be the word harder that somehow finds its way into those moans. Regardless, Justin’s grip on my hair tightens, and he does exactly what he’s promised—he ensures that I will never forget what he feels like inside me.

Thrust after thrust, he presses me into the couch, and his hand slides around my front and down to cover my clit. With every jolt forward, I feel his cock bottom out, and I buck against his hand.

“Holy fuck,” I scream as my entire body begins to convulse with pleasure.

Selena’s pussy clamps down on my cock, and I swear to God, lightning is shooting down my spine. My balls spasm and I let loose, filling her with everything I’ve got, yelling the word mine when I come.

Fuck yell. I roar.

She’s slumped over the couch, limbs unmoving. If it wasn’t for the whimpering moans of pleasure, I might think I fucked her unconscious. Which I have no aversion to doing.

If her cunt strangling my cock is any measure, I think she came at least three times. Maybe more. It was everything I could do to not shoot my load after a half dozen strokes. Even without the butt plug, her pussy is tight, probably the tightest I’ve ever had.

And with that wicked addition, I succeeded in ruining myself for any other woman. No other pussy will do. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. This woman’s cunt owns me.

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